


Heart at Stake

by Cattraine



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010), Stakeland (2010), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 13:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16598498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cattraine/pseuds/Cattraine
Summary: A crossover between Hawaii Five-0, Teen Wolf and the movie Stakeland.





	Heart at Stake

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a short OPV exercise. It may spawn a sequel, as so many do. I make no promises, my time to write is limited these days.
> 
> I am not very kind to some of the TW characters, but not everyone survives during an apocalypse and no one does so by being nice. The movie Stakeland is a old favorite of mine, and while it has some problems (some bad special effects for one) it also has that gritty landscape I love in post apocalyptic worlds.
> 
> Apologies because this is not betaed. I will fix any errors I find on a reread. Also, I don't warn for character death, etc. Read at your own risk.

Liam Dunbar

 

Liam was on the wall when he heard the distant rumble of approaching engines from the valley below. He reached over and yanked the chain of the bell beside him, sending out loud peals of warning over Beacon Hill. 

He had barely resumed watch, binoculars held to his eyes as he scanned the road below, before there was the harsh clang of boots on the metal ladder up to the guard post and the Sheriff joined him, huge black wolf ghosting at his heels.

Liam handed the lens over to the silent man and stood quietly aside, relieved that the Sheriff and Derek were there. Beacon Hill had not been approached by any friendly parties in functional vehicles for months, though raiders usually tried the wall at dawn.

Behind him, there were shouted orders and a kind of organized chaos as others ran up to man the walls, quickly passing out arms and ammo. Mason nodded to him as he trotted past, rifle in hand. Liam saw Mrs. McCall with Dr. Deacon below them, emergency medical kit at ready for casualties, her thin face grim. He realized that he had not seen her smile since Scott vanished. 

The Sheriff barely spoke since Stiles died and no one ever saw Derek in human form anymore.

After the virus struck, Beacon Hills had drawn in and closed ranks, and now was simply Beacon Hill, a heavily fortified enclosure containing what had once been the electrical power plant overlooking the city and a ramshackle tent city. Now it was home for the remaining citizens of Beacon Hills, both human and supernatural, because the warped, disease-ridden creatures that roamed the countryside now were deadlier than both.

As they tensely watched, the rumble of engines grew louder, until finally a sleek, Harley Davidson roadster popped around a curve, holding two riders. One was bent over the handle bars, intent on coaxing every ounce of speed out of the heavy machine, while his passenger, blond hair whipping in the wind, kept one hand on his shoulder and braced himself as he sent a volley of shots back at the motley lot of vehicles pursuing them. He was damned accurate, his final shot sending a rapidly gaining pursuer on a battered dirt bike flipping ass over heels to flop twitching onto the gravel at the side of the road, his bike spinning off into the ravine.

The big bike skidded to a stop a good thirty feet from the gate spewing gravel and the dark haired driver mutely turned a sharp gaze up to the top of the wall, immediately locking eyes with the Sheriff. His blond passenger kept his eyes on their six, reloading his automatic quickly, skillfully slamming the fresh clip in, trusting his partner to watch his back.

Liam whined softly beneath his breath, if the Sheriff turned them away, these guys were toast. The raiders topped the crest of the curve just out of range from Beacon’s snipers, raising a cacophony of catcalling, howling and revving of engines. 

Liam watched as Derek nudged his big head under the Sheriff’s hand. The man responded with a shout to the gatekeepers.

“Open it a quarter! Let them in!”

Below them, Malia and Isaac heaved and slid the heavy armored gate to one side while others held their weapons at ready. The outsiders would be disarmed, examined for any signs of infection, isolated and interrogated before being allowed contact with any of Beacon’s citizens.

The big bike rumbled into the compound, the blond man now slumping wearily against his partner’s broad back, pale blue eyes wary, weapon still held carefully at ready as Malia and Isaac slid the gate shut behind them and barred it. Both men were dressed in battered biker leathers, heavy boots and kevlar vests. The heavy bike showed signs of hard use, and was loaded with supplies.

The Sheriff and his constant companion, the last Alpha of Beacon Hills headed down the ladder to inspect the newcomers. 

Liam kept his gaze on the raiders. Thwarted by the loss of their prey, they howled and bellowed taunts for a few minutes, but then abruptly retreated. Liam scowled and sniffed the air. The unnecessary noise would draw them from miles away tonight to sniff around the wall. At this distance and upwind he couldn’t tell if any of the men were wolves either. The sun was sinking fast, long shadows already snaking out of the surrounding forest as dusk fell. 

Liam frowned as he scanned the area by the toppled dirt bike. 

The corpse of the raider was gone.

 

Sheriff Stilinski

John Stilinski met Melissa McCall outside the RV they used as a quarantine unit, Derek a silent shadow at his side. Dr. Deacon was inside tending to the blond man’s injured leg under his companion’s watchful eye.

He sighed at her questioning face and spoke reluctantly, voice a seldom used, hollow rumble. 

“Human. The tall one is military and the short one is a cop. They’re looking for someone. Family.”

He nodded at her flinch. There were very few survivors alive and untainted in this part of the country. In this part of the world.

Stilinski continued flatly.

“They’re not infected. Derek would know, he would smell it. The blond has an old knee injury that got hit by a bat in a fight at the trading post in Red Bluff a few days ago. They just need time to rest for a few days. They’re headed north to Mt. Shasta. The raiders cut them off the main highway earlier today.”

She nodded, already heading inside to assist the Vet, then impulsively turned to speak. They had been close friends once, until John distanced himself. Stilinski was already moving away towards the small, isolated metal shed he and Derek shared as quarters. 

“John…” 

Her voice trailed off when he neither slowed or turned and Derek flashed a warning of red eyes and a hint of fang over his shoulder. She sighed and turned away, determined to help those she could.

Maybe she and Chris could talk the distant pair into sharing a meal with them later. It wasn’t good that they isolated themselves from the community so often.

 

Danny Mahealani

Danny wiped down the polished plank that served as a bar top in the only drinking establishment in Beacon Hill. The bar itself was just an old quonset hut that had seen better days as a storage facility with a battered pool table and a few tables and chairs scattered over the concrete floor. Danny thought the red and gold shaded Chinese lanterns, kept alive by the generator and strung along the ceiling gave it a jaunty, if shabby air. He gave a wistful, passing thought to wild, glittery nights at The Jungle.

He kept to his end of the bar and watched as the curvy redhead at the other end worked her wiles on the nearly inebriated trucker at the other. He was one of the remaining transport truckers that still hauled goods between the few surviving towns and outposts in this part of the state, and he was due to head north in a few days. The man might be nearly shitfaced, but he was also adamant in his refusal to her murmured requests. 

Ignoring her pout, the man stood and wobbled for the door, sliding a handful of pill bottles down to Danny as payment. 

Danny checked over the contents of the amber vials, automatically pocketing most of them to turn over to the hospital tent later. He felt a pang at the sight of the bottle of prescription Adderall, thought of the bright-eyed boy who would never need the drug again. 

The Sheriff walked around like a man half dead himself these days.

He turned his attention back to Lydia Martin, marveling at her ability to look like a model out of Vogue shooting a post apocalypse spread. Her hair, make up, and nails were immaculate, even if her tightly clinging blouse was cut too low and the heels of her boots too high for any terrain except pavement. She was frowning now, polished red nails tapping the bar top in an irritated tattoo, thwarted again in her goal.

“I wouldn’t bother girl. Whatever you’re thinking, it won’t work.”

She tossed her hair and gave him a cool, dismissive smile. 

“Not every man is a ball-less wonder, Danny.”

She tossed back the remainder of her drink and headed for the door, clicking heels and swaying hips drawing the wistful eyes of every man in the joint. Not one of them would dare touch her, everyone in Beacon knew she was under pack protection.

Danny sighed, shrugging off the sharp sting of the insult. 

He had learned early that Lydia had no use for any man, gay or straight, whom she couldn’t bend to her will, had watched her jerk Jackson around by the dick for years, until he wised up and left Beacon Hills.

It wasn’t difficult to guess what she was plotting. How to escape Beacon Hill. How to get somewhere civilized that suited her refined tastes. It was her obsession. Danny doubted if any such place still existed on this continent. Maybe she thought Jackson was waiting for her in London, or one of the few last bastions of civilization left. 

Life for Lydia was difficult now, in a world where she could no longer instantly get what she wanted with a pout or her family’s money. Instead of turning her brilliant mind to aiding the community, she sought escape. He couldn’t say he blamed her.

Danny had been on the wall earlier, had watched the avid way she eyed the newcomers. Her bright, calculating gaze drifting over the lean, dark haired, leather clad man as he helped his injured partner off the bike and took most of his weight as they limped toward quarantine, and immediately dismissing his shorter companion. 

Sometimes Danny wondered how such a brilliant person could be so damned dense.

“Lydia.”

She paused at the door, back stiff, head tilted.

“Lydia, there’s only room on that bike for two.”

The screen door slammed behind her.

With a sigh, Danny turned away to serve one of his regulars. It was always interesting to see what Greenburg had to trade.

 

Derek Hale

The full moon hovered over the valley. The stars were bright tonight, it was nearly October and the nights were increasingly chilly. Derek crouched quietly in Beta form high on the domed roof of the water tower and listened and watched, face to the night breeze.

He had watched earlier as the remnants of the McCall pack had tussled and played by the gate before lightly scaling it and vanishing silently into the woods on a midnight run. There were few of them now, and Derek had no inclination to recruit more.

The hordes of dim-witted, deadly Things that roamed the Preserve had no chance of catching or harming a pack of healthy werewolves. Hopefully, the pack would bring home a deer or two. Even an uninfected cow would do. Meat reserves were getting low again.

He tilted his muzzle to the wind and sniffed, caught only the faint taint of other and the tang of fresh blood from the scattered remnants of the corpse of the dead raider. The pale Things had dragged it into the underbrush, torn it apart and fed, snarling and squabbling over the gobbets of flesh then moved on, seeking cover before the searing sun rose.

Still, Derek was troubled. Liam had come to him and stammered out the worrying news that the body of the raider had disappeared from the roadside before the sun set. If the creatures that had once been human were in the process of mutating to the point that they could tolerate daylight, the faint edge the people of Beacon Hill had over the creatures was lost.

So, Derek kept watch. Attention half on the surrounding forest and half on the grieving man who slept restlessly in their quarters, one ear flicked back and attuned to his heartbeat. John at least was sleeping tonight, without dreams or tears to disturb his rest. 

Derek had promised Stiles he would look after his father and he kept that promise. John Stilinski was only reason he stayed. The only reason he kept sane and retained his humanity, did not assume wolf form and disappear into the northern wilderness, the only reason he didn’t tilt his head back and howl his grief to the cold, distant stars in memory of a bright-eyed boy.

He stayed at his post until pre-dawn, when Malia climbed up to take his place, bumping his shoulder affectionately as he moved past her. She reeked of fresh venison, so the hunt had been successful. By the time he dropped lightly to the ground he was full wolf. Shifting was so effortless now, he gave it no thought. 

He trotted back to the small shed he shared with John and slipped inside, barring the sturdy door behind him. When he slid into bed, under the blankets and into the Sheriff’s warm, sleepy arms he was naked and fully human again.

Malia Hale

Malia sat at the battered picnic table under the awning that served as the camp cafeteria and scarfed down her plate of hash, eggs and wild greens, one arm curved protectively around it. The community maintained a small flock of closely guarded chickens and ducks and a few precious dairy goats. 

Malia had plans to capture a trio of piglets she had seen near an abandoned farm outside of town to add to their livestock. Malia loved bacon.  
Of them all, the feral Malia had adapted the easiest to the new near apocalyptic world.

She curled her lip at Lydia’s distain for her lack of manners and watched in amusement as the other girl was shot down, yet again, by the man she was determined to seduce.

McGarrett had eyes for one person, and one person only. The stocky, blond man who was currently sleeping off painkillers in the med tent, his swollen knee cold packed and elevated. The tall brunet gave the petite redhead a strained, polite smile and eased past her, carrying a plate of food to share with his companion. He and his partner had only been released from a 24-hour quarantine yesterday, but Lydia was relentless.

Beside her, Liam snorted, and they shared a quick grin, before snapping teeth at each other and squabbling over the last bit of rehydrated bacon on the platter between them.

They ignored Lydia’s glare as she stalked past on her way back to the single women’s quarters. It was entertaining for the young wolves to watch her increasingly desperate attempts at seduction.

If Lydia had the olfactory senses of a werewolf, she would realize that the two men’s personal body odors were so entangled that they were nearly one and back off. Any sensible wolf knew they were a long-mated pair at first sniff.

 

Alan Deaton

The loud whup of helicopter blades hovering directly overhead, followed by bloodcurdling screeches that mingled with gunshots and the clang of the alarm bell, shocked Alan Deaton out of a sound sleep. 

Raiders, who once had been military men, breached the walls from above, and were dropping several of the infected inside near the medical tent as a deadly distraction, while others attacked the wall. The gurgling alien screeches were suddenly overwhelmed by Derek’s deep, bass roar of pure rage followed by the sound of automatic gunfire as Chris Argent, who was on night watch, joined him. The bass boom of the Sheriff’s shotgun followed, mingling with the snarls of fighting werewolves.

Rolling out of his cot, Alan yanked on his boots and slapped a hand on the carved Rune stone on his night table, muttering a word under his breath. His magic skills were weak at best, but Stiles had been wise beyond his years and set up a ring of powerful, protective wards inside the walls of Beacon Hill that would recharge with every sunrise if carefully maintained. It was a testament to the young man’s growing skills that the yells of the human attackers suddenly reached a higher pitch as an invisible wave of power rippled through camp and struck the raiders. 

It was, Alan imagined, akin to being psychically electrocuted. By the time he reached the medical tent, the majority of the raiders had been either repelled or slaughtered. From the panicked yells from outside the walls, they were getting a taste of their own medicine from the creatures lurking in the woods outside the walls.

Rounding a corner of the tent he found the newcomers standing back to back, defending the inhabitants of the hospital tent from several pale, drooling, shambling horrors that had once been human.

Before Alan could wade in welding the heavy, rune carved, oak staff he held (another gift from Stiles) Derek barreled around the corner and neatly decapitated the trio is one smooth slash of his bloody claws. Standing over the twitching bodies, ignoring the sluggish spurts of blackened blood, he threw back his head and howled his triumph. 

His pack answered from various points along the wall, echoing his victory. The wolves were busy tonight.

Derek in his beta form looked like the embodiment of everyman’s idea of what a werewolf was. Massive and broad-shouldered, a shaggy, black wolf’s head set on a muscular, furry human torso, muscular arms that led down to scimitar like claws on his hands, red eyes and white fangs gleaming in the flicker of fire and lamp light. A bushy tail whipped over sturdy, canine haunches. He was the embodiment of human nightmares.

To their credit, the two men didn’t shoot him, but they drew closer to each other, shoulder to shoulder, weapons held at ready just in case, faces pale with shock, but calm. Alan’s already high opinion of the pair rose. 

It took a special kind of courage for these men to travel the wasteland of what was once a thriving country in search of a missing child. Their devotion was inspiring, if possibly misguided. He did not judge. 

Alan Deaton had finally learned that things had a way of balancing out that he could neither foresee nor prevent. It had been a difficult lesson.

Sheriff Stilinski stepped out of the shadows, Mossberg 500 at ready, placing himself between the newcomers and Derek. 

At the sight of him the Alpha lowered his huge head, took a deep, relieved whiff of the man’s scent, chuffed, then dropped seamlessly down onto all fours into full wolf form and took up his post at the Sheriff’s side, furry shoulder pressed against his hip. 

John’s hand dropped automatically to rest on the wolf’s neck, reassuring them both. He ran a quick accessing look over everyone, saw that they were unhurt, nodded briskly and then moved silently off into the darkness, headed back towards the wall for clean-up, Derek at his side.

Alan almost pitied any surviving raider they found cowering in the darkness. 

 

Chris Argent

Chris Argent leaned sleepily against a pole at the entrance of the hospital tent, carefully nursing a cup of precious coffee. Coffee was a very valuable commodity these days. The beans were worth their weight in gold. Or liquor, or morphine. He waited patiently as Melissa checked the patients inside. 

Old Man Turner was snoring away in a cot in the back, as usual, his equally elderly tabby cat, Minerva, curled up in a fluffy, orange ball in the curve of his knees, slanted topaz eyes keeping keen watch over her person.

Rosa Martinez was quietly nursing her newborn infant in the opposite corner, hollow doe eyes focused on nothing as she stared into the distance. Melissa was worried about her, he knew. Since the death of Jorge, Rosa existed in a world of her own, sometimes barely noticing baby Sophia.

Chris hoped he wouldn’t hear one morning that she had quietly disappeared, simply wandering off into the forest in search of her lost man, or her own death. Fearing for the infant, he had the pack keep ears and eyes on her.

Melissa popped out of the tent and deftly stole his cup of coffee and took a long, blissful sip. He gave a playful growl and pretended to scowl at her, pleased at the interaction. Since they lost Scott, Melissa too, had worried him. 

Fortunately, the continuous need for her nursing skills kept her busy, allowing her time to slowly work her way through her grief. She and Deaton provided the sole medical care for Beacon Hill.

McGarrett and Williams were spooned together on a single cot near the entrance. The blond was snoring softly, head pillowed on his partner’s bicep. He would be out for a while. He had strained his knee again during last night’s battle and Deaton had not hesitated to give him a generous dose of pain medication. His partner was curled around him like a big cat, face buried in tousled, blond hair to shut out the light. His free hand rested lightly, fingers twitching, on the weapon in his thigh holster.

The two were seldom apart. They moved together in a seamless tandem that spoke of years of trusted partnership. Chris had watched them bicker, share food and personal space, always close, always touching, hips or shoulders or brushing hands, reluctant to be out of each other’s sight.

“How are they?” he asked curiously.

The two men had fought with admirable ferocity last night, McGarrett joining them on the wall, while his friend guarded the hospital tent. They were both expert shots and exhibited impressive close combat skills that spoke of years of training and experience.

It was a pity that the two would not consider staying at Beacon Hill. Upon learning that they were a Navy SEAL and police officer, Argent had done his best to persuade them to stay. The community needed skilled, combat ready personnel. 

Personally, he thought their long journey to find a lost child was a fool’s errand. A lost sixteen-year old girl had little chance for survival now. Children and teens were easy prey these days. If the monsters didn’t get them, slavers or raiders would. The chance that the cop’s kid was still alive, much less healthy, was miniscule. 

His thoughts touched, briefly, painfully on a sweet, dimpled smile and he blinked and his gaze automatically swept away to check the wall—-he could see Isaac’s curly head from here, nose to the wind, as he stood morning watch. Thoughts of Alison still brought a sharp pang of grief, even now, after so much time had passed since the Oni slaughtered her.

Melissa smiled fondly at the sleeping couple.

“Danny’s knee will probably need a brace. It’s not bad enough to require surgery—not that we could repair it if we wanted to. They were both up all night helping with clean-up, as you well know. A few more hours of sleep can’t hurt.”

“Can I escort you to breakfast Nurse McCall?”

He flirted, dredging up a smile for her. She was the bright light in his life these days.

“Only if you can talk Mrs. Wong into a refill. Mr. Argent.” 

She waggled the now empty cup under his nose, smirking at his rueful expression. 

Erma Wong guarded their food stores with the tenacity of a human pit bull (and a Louisville Slugger loving wound with barbed wire). The stout woman had the face of one as well, but she could cook almost anything, make it stretch to fill as many bellies as possible and not only make it eatable, but delicious as well. Her considerable knowledge of gardening; vegetable and herbal and of wild eatable and medicinal plants was invaluable to the small community.

The last man that had attempted to steal extra rations for himself had ended up (with Derek’s aid) dangled head down over the wall for an hour after sundown, just out of reach of sharp nails and stinking, toothy jaws. No one had made that particular mistake since, and the rattled, traumatized thief found himself on eternal KP around camp if he wanted to be fed.

Chris sighed and gallantly offered her his arm. It would cost him in foraging favors, but he thought Mrs. Wong had a soft spot for blue eyes and he had some carefully hoarded seed packets to use as a bribe.

“You’ve become very mercenary, Mrs. McCall.” 

He reproached, as she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and they strolled off to the kitchen tent. Her startled, bright laughter made him smile. Maybe it would be a good day. There had been no casualties from last night’s attempted raid, and only minor injuries to the fighters. 

Mentally, he began to inventory their food supplies and arms and reluctantly realized it was time for another scavenging expedition. 

Each time they went out, they were forced to forage farther from home base and pickings were increasingly lean. They had to contend not only with the Infected, but competition from the remaining fortified towns that had once been friendly neighbors. They needed another greenhouse and a new generator and solar panels if he could find them…winter was coming and it got much colder in northern California than people thought.

Surviving was one thing, but Chris Argent was determined that the people he protected would once again live comfortably one day.

Scott McCall

The creature that had once been the beloved son of Melissa McCall and alpha of Beacon Hills crouched by the scorched stump of the Nemeton. His massive, shaggy shoulders shook with fever and his sharp toothed jaws drooled black gore.

Dimly, he knew he was there for a purpose. He… guarded…yes, he guarded the grave of the boy he had carefully buried beneath the tree. He was…waiting, yes, waiting for something, something important. It was his duty, he was the last True Alpha, he had a purpose, he guarded the land and the people on it, his pack, his family.

He whined softly, his head pounding, his many wounds never healing. He was so very hungry, eternally hungry, yet he knew deep inside that it was a hunger that could never be satisfied with the soft, human flesh he craved, that the gnawing craving hollowing his stomach was wrong.  
He longed for the comfort of his mother’s arms, his pack, but he was death to them now, so he stayed away, far away from the delicious odor of warm, human flesh.

So, he waited, and he guarded his friend, his beloved brother, who spoke so gently to him in his dreams, both day and night, reassuring and comforting him that his torment would end soon. Stiles told him that, so it was true. Stiles never lied to him. He just had to remember what his brother had instructed him to do, he panted softly, trying hard to remember. It was so very important. His head hurt and his bones ached.

The last True Alpha in the world dug his scimitar like claws in the trunk of the old tree and shook and mourned and wished that his torn throat would allow him to do more than rasp out ragged breaths, to howl out his pain to the world, that he would once again hear the distant answering calls of his pack. They had always answered when he called before. Always.

A small sound caught his attention and he raised his weary head shakily. Was it the others, the undead things again, here to try again to desecrate the grave he guarded so diligently? He snarled. He would rip them all from limb to limb, it was easy, they were mindless, hungry horrors. He peered groggily over the stump, then huffed in amazement.

A tiny green sapling was unfurling tender leaves from a massive crack in the center of the nemeton. Even as he watched it struggled to grow taller and stronger, little leaves faltering and trembling and sparking in the night breeze and moonlight.

Scott sniffed suspiciously, then whined softly, eagerly as the scent of a familiar magic filled his senses. This was it, the thing he had been waiting for, the hidden thing he had protected so fiercely and now, he finally remembered, it needed just one more thing to grow into something strong and pure and good that would protect the land once again. He had had only to wait for the right moon.

Carefully he dragged his wounded body up on the stump and crouched above the wee tree. It needed what only he could give—could willingly sacrifice. Scott lifted his head and took a deep breath, eyes closing as he sought out the familiar scent of home and family, one last time. 

When he opened his eyes again it was to meet the bright eyes of a familiar figure who stood waiting for him by the stump, face fiercely proud—proud of him. The apparition of his best friend held out a hand, and he knew it was finally time to go. Wolf and Boy held their gaze as Scott raised his right hand and dug his sharp claws deep into his own chest, allowing his heart’s blood, willingly given, to spill and water the world tree.

He crouched over the stump for most of the night, spilling his courage, his youth, his joy and love and his life into the tiny sapling. When at last, his huge, furry body slumped slowly to one side, another boyish apparition slipped out of the cooling body and the two clasped hands and laughed silently together as they stepped lightly away into eternity seeking further adventures.

Behind him the stump heaved and cracked as the young tree, spark rooted and wolf nourished, surged up towards the heavens, spreading a wide canopy of protective magic and benevolence as it went, its strong roots tenderly enveloped the silent body of the true alpha and slid it carefully below the earth to join his best friend’s bones.

The undead things in closest radius to the tree, trembled as though touched by an unseen hand, and dropped in their tracks as death finally granted them the mercy of a peaceful end. 

The plague, born from the dark magic of eternal decay had finally met its match in the return of vibrant, jubilant life and that life would triumph and flourish as it always did.

 

Lydia Martin

Lydia’s thoughts were so chaotic, she could barely think straight. The banshee bit her full lip and fought to remain calm as once again, she watched yet another ticket out of Beacon Hills prepare to leave--without her. She had tried every weapon in her considerable armory of seduction, bribery and tears to convince Steven McGarrett to take her with him.

She had heard the camp gossip. These men were from Hawaii. Beautiful, safe, quarantined Hawaii. They actually had an entire Navy battle ship anchored off the California coast, searching for survivors and waiting patiently for their return. 

They were searching for William’s daughter, who was vacationing with her mother at a resort near Mt. Shasta when the virus struck. The girl was clever and had managed to contact her father via short wave radio and give a location, where she had taken refuge to wait for rescue.

The whole camp was busily hotly debating whether to convoy to the coast and abandon the mainland or to stay and try to survive and rebuild. 

Issacs’s news had added fuel to the debate fire. On his morning scouting trip, he had discovered heaps of undead corpses in the vicinity and others were dropping like flies. 

All Lydia felt was the constant pressure of the thousands of lingering Dead on her senses, if she lost control, she would scream herself into insanity. She fumbled with one hand to feel the tiny golden amulet on the delicate chain around her throat. It kept them at bay. When the magic expired---and it would eventually, so would her control. She needed to be gone from this place. She needed an isolated place safe from the murmuring dead.

She bit down on a scream of sheer frustration and tried to rally her thoughts. Maybe Hawaii was the answer after all. She took a deep breath and turned her attention on Jordan Parrish who was apparently the leader in the argument for the convoy to the coast. He would do, a hell hound should prove an excellent tool for her needs, and it certainly didn’t hurt that he was her type as well.

Grimly, she withdrew a tube of bright red lipstick from her pocket, applied a glossy coat to her lips, shook back her curls and strode towards Parrish, a bright smile already in place.

 

Grace Williams

Grace paused in the clearing, frozen like a doe who sensed an unseen predator. Carefully, she sniffed the air, eyes searching the tree line bordering the clearing. The infected reeked of decay. She stayed crouched low, forage bag full of wild greens and mushrooms held close and touched the knife sheathed on her belt for reassurance.

It was noon, the sun shining bright and hot overhead. From here she could hear the murmur of the stream where she collected her water, but the insects and birds had gone silent, so she stayed still herself. Something was close and it was hunting too and she was in more danger from cougars and bears and other humans during the day, then she was by the infected.

She had been forced to abandon the resort cabin she and her mother had taken refuge in weeks ago, Rachel had pushed her out the window with a full backpack of supplies and sacrificed herself against the horde that had managed to claw the door open.

Grace still heard her mother’s screams in her dreams.

She had been lucky and found a well-stocked fire observation tower and made it her main camp. The infected didn’t climb well, and it was too high for them to catch her scent so the few that shambled by underneath never noticed her. She had even managed to use the radio equipment to eventually contact Uncle Steve and he had assured her that he and her Danno were coming for her.

Her job was simply to survive long enough for them to reach her.

A dry stick cracked off to her right at the same instant a putrid scent hit her face. Heart pounding, she peered through the fir saplings scattered through the clearing, saw a pale shape moving slowly but surely towards her as it blindly sniffed the air, black gore smearing the warped face. It was a shambler, an infected and it was moving in the daylight!

Grace’s nerve broke and she bolted, running downhill blindly before she came to her senses and veered towards her safe outlook post. Behind her, she hear the eager, hungry moans as the shambler came after her. She didn’t look back, she put her head down and ran, careful of her footing on the rocky terrain, a twisted ankle here meant death. Mentally she thanked every deity she knew for her daily runs with Steve and her decision to try out for the cross-country running team at school.

She splashed across the small stream and scrambled up the steep mountain slope, panting. Behind her she heard her pursuer screech as it broke from the trees and tangled itself in a clump of blackberry briars. That gave her time to reach the foot of the tower and climb up the ladder, forcing her aching legs to keep moving. Reaching the tower platform, she scrambled up and slammed the trapdoor shut, shoving a length of iron rebar through the latch to bar it shut and lay on top of it, trying to slow her breathing. 

Below she heard the thing, moan and grumble to itself as it circled clumsily for long minutes, then having lost sight and scent of her, it moved slowly off, seeking the dark shade beneath the trees. She risked a peek, rolling to the edge of the platform and saw it stagger off under the trees. She watched a while to make certain it was gone, then rolled limply onto her back. 

Tears welled up and she bit back a sob. They were moving around in the day now. The creature showed no fear of the sun, nor had she seen any light induced damage. If the infected had mutated to withstand the sun’s rays her chances of surviving long enough to reunite with her father had just dropped substantially. She closed her eyes and hugged herself, rocking slowly.

Please hurry, please hurry Danno!

 

Steven McGarrett

Steve ran one last check of the bike, and ran a mental inventory of their supplies. The good people of Beacon Hill were generous. Argent had restocked their ammo and fuel, Nurse McCall had loaded their first aid kit with bandages, suture kits and painkillers and the Sheriff had given them detailed directions (with alternate routes) to their destination. Erma had stuffed their saddlebag with food.

They were less than a hundred miles from Grace’s location. Now they just had to run a gauntlet of raiders and infected to reach her. The plan was to retrieve her safely and return to Beacon Hill and guide the convoy to the coast. 

Argent and McCall were considering going, to begin anew in Hawaii, but the Sheriff had refused to even consider leaving Beacon Hill. His son was buried here. He and Derek would stay to the end. Beacon Hill was home. 

Steve was still trying to wrap his head around the existence of supernatural beings. Now that he thought of it, werewolves certainly explained some of the shit he had seen with Special Forces in Afghanistan. 

The flicker of movement brought his head up and he watched as a handsome, dark-haired man clad only in battered jeans approached Danny on silent, bare feet, a folded map in hand, ducked his head shyly and conversed quietly with him for a few minutes before Danny took the map, clasped his hand and gave him a wide, grateful smile. The young man nodded stiffly and awkwardly retreated to where the Sheriff stood silent guard up on the wall. 

Steve blinked when the man ignored the ladder and leapt up and lightly hauled himself up on the walkway to take his place beside the Sheriff. The wall was at least fifteen feet high. McGarrett realized then, that this was the elusive Derek Hale. The respected, much-loved alpha of Beacon Hill, now seldom seen in human form. The handsome wolf stood next to the older man, shoulders brushing, a stance Steve recognized.

His own partner bumped shoulders with him and whistled softly under his breath as he climbed on the bike and settled behind Steve.

“Got a map and key to a well-stocked, hidden cabin near where Grace is. We can set up base there while we look for her.”

Steve smiled softly at the hope in Danny’s face and voice. His partner had struggled to maintain his faith that his child was alive, but with each infected or raider they encountered that hope had dimmed more and Danno had become more silent with each passing day.

“Ready, partner?”  
“Yeah. Let’s do this thing.”

Danny slapped Steve on the shoulder, and settled on the seat behind him, one hand on Steve’s hip, the other on his holstered weapon. Steve nodded, and the Harley roared to life. The last thing they saw as they rolled out of the gate was the figures of the Sheriff and Hale standing as silent sentinels on the wall. 

The Sheriff lifted a hand in farewell, then they rounded the curve and were gone.

Fini

11/11/2018


End file.
